Front Page Story
by Thirteenth Chapter
Summary: Andrea is a journalist who tangles with the wrong crowd. Can a couple of AWOL X-Men help her? Maybe - if they don't run out of time first. Almost guaranteed to be loooong. Rating is for language and violence. Featuring Rogue, Gambit, and lots of OCs.
1. Something Major

Okay, a note on accents and universe…ness:

First of all, I don't speak French and don't intend to butcher a perfectly good language with Babelfish. Any extended French commentary will be filtered through Andrea, who conveniently also doesn't speak French. Secondly, I'm going to tone down Gambit's accent a little, because I find it difficult to write and distracting to read. Same thing with Rogue's – in reality, no one speaks like her accent is usually written. Modern Southerners do pronounce the "r" at the end of words, so she wouldn't say "sugah". Also, in the current Rogue book, it's implied that she's lost a lot of her accent, so I feel justified.

On universe…ness: since this doesn't really fit in anywhere in comic canon, I guess you could call this very, very, very slight AU.

Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters you recognize/have heard of. Everyone else is mine. I am making no money off this story.

Writer's block. The phrase only began to describe the feeling of frustration that ran through Andrea's tense body when she looked at the blank white page on her monitor. In theory, she was writing a story on the string of unidentified bodies that had been dumped in the river in the last few months. In practice, she had nothing. A third body had been found two days earlier. Autopsies shows that all three deaths were probably accidental. All were male. Dental records had no matches. They were almost certainly illegal immigrants, smuggled across the border, driven hundreds of miles across Texas and Louisiana with the promise of work. Now they were dead and if anyone knew how to contact their families back in Mexico, they weren't talking. Andrea had talked to the police, who told her to talk to the Port. The Port had, of course, told her to talk to the police. She was pretty sure neither cared that much about a few undocumented aliens in the river. It was already enough for a story – a couple paragraphs with the basic details, but Andrea and her editor had planned something major. No one was cooperating. She'd hit a dead end.

In frustration, Andrea pounded her hands on the keyboard.

"5rn xcve4 cm cmdc m cvmui' sferlr;nvarhnvfvfjkl" the screen now read.

_Well, it's a start_, she thought.

"Hey Andy," a young woman's voice, thick with the distinctive and oddly un-Southern New Orleans accent, came from the far side of the cubicle.

"Hey, Lauren," Andrea replied, not looking up from her intent examination of the coffee stain her desk. Her head rested in her palms, her elbows in turn resting on the desk. _It kind of looks like a plane._

"You know where Jimmy wants these proofs, chica?"

"Um. I think in the workroom by the stairs." _Actually, it looks more like the bird with the snake on the cactus on the Mexican flag. Whoa, that's pretty amazing. I wonder how much my desk would go for on eBay?_

"Okay. Good luck with, um, whatever it is you're doing." Andrea glanced up to shoot an apologetic smile at the courier as she turned around, just in time to catch a clear view of a dark smudge near her eye.

"Oh! Wow, you've got a lot here, Lauren, hon. I'll help you carry them." Leaping up and seizing an armful of the reams of paper before the younger woman could object, Andrea set off on a rapid pace to the workroom.

Dumping the papers on the heavy wooden work table, Andrea shut the door and stood in front of the knob, blocking Lauren's exit. Lauren stared at her in consternation. The smudge on her eye was definitely a bruise, Andrea could see now. She had attempted to cover it up with makeup, but it was still clearly visible.

"Um," Andrea began brilliantly, and stopped. Lauren made a move to reach behind her and get at the doorknob.

"Lauren, are you okay?" Andrea burst out, suddenly.

"Andrea, I don't know what you're getting at, but you're freaking me—"

"Lauren, you have a black eye. If…uh, I know I'm being a busybody here, and it's not like we're close friends, but let me give you my cell number, you can call me if you ever need any help…"

"Oh God, Andy!" Lauren laughed. "Don't worry. I don't have an abusive boyfriend."

"So you walked into a door?" Andrea asked doubtfully.

"No…look, I feel like such an idiot, I was hoping everyone would ignore the eye. I was at a bar last night and on my way, this crazy guy attacked me."

"What?" yelped Andrea. "And you say you're okay?"

"No, I am, really. The guy shoved me down and I hit my head on this…stupid milk crate that was on the ground…I don't know what it was doing there, someone didn't take out the trash or something…anyway, that's where the black eye came from."

"But after that? The guy just went away?"

"No." Lauren grinned and lowered her voice. "I was rescued."

"By the bouncer?"

"No, by Gambit."

"Who on earth is Gambit?"

Lauren stared at Andrea like she'd asked who Santa Claus was. "Don't you know? He's New Orleans' own superhero! I mean, he isn't here all the time, I don't think, but enough."

"New Orleans has a superhero now?" Andrea asked dryly. "I thought New York had a monopoly on all of them. What's New Orleans superhero do?"

"I can't believe you've never heard of him…you're a reporter, Andy!"

"This isn't a tabloid, Lauren. We deal in actual news. Not whatever crazy shit people in crazy costumes are getting up to in New York."

"Hey now, mutants are people too," Lauren admonished her. "Mutant news is news for everyone." She bither lip. "I'm…sorry. I try not avoid politically charged topics at work…I don't want to get into an argument with you."

Andrea brushed it off. She'd never been personally invested in the human-mutant debate, and she was a journalist anyway. Journalists were supposed to be objective.

"So you're saying this Gambit guy is a mutant?"

Lauren nodded. "I guess so. He didn't do anything really…mutanty…but he has red eyes."

"So what'd he do to the crazy attacker guy, if he doesn't have mutant powers?"

"He kicked his ass." Lauren said simply.

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much, yeah. He had a staff," she added, after a moment.

"Did he say anything?" Andrea's curiosity was piqued.

"Um. Not really. He yelled at the guy in French-"

"He's French?" Andrea asked, startled. Why would a French guy adopt New Orleans? Didn't they have criminals to beat up in France?

"I don't think so…maybe. I think he's Cajun, actually."

"That makes sense," Andrea mused. Though Orleans Parish was technically part of Acadiana, the official Cajun "homeland", there weren't really all that many Cajuns in the city itself; or rather, they were far outnumbered by everyone else. The few Andrea had ever met all spoke English as their first language. A couple had mentioned cousins back in the country, or grandparents who spoke French at home, but other than unpronouncable last names, there wasn't anything particularly unusual about them.

Lauren was staring at the air above Andrea's head. She giggled.

"What?"

"He was totally hot."

Andrea snickered. "Lauren, I love you, girl. Never fail to look on the bright side of things. Sure, you got attacked by some guy who probably wanted to rape and murder you, but at least the dude who rescued you was hot."

"Girl's gotta look on the bright side of things," Lauren said, grinning.

"Wow. You gonna be okay, Lauren?"

"Yeah, thanks for being concerned, though, girl. Swear to god, I'm fine. I was shaken up a little, but I'm doing okay now. I gotta get back to work, anyway."

"Oh yeah, no problem. I guess I have to go back to work too," she sighed. "Oh, wait, it's Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Mmmm, yeah," Lauren said.

"Oh, excellent," Andrea said happily. "I have a dinner date. I have to get out of this building."

Andrea had been a little early, it was true. But she had had enough of staring at the blank page on her monitor for one day. She'd been at the café for ten minutes already, enjoying the sunshine and the not-too-muggy weather, and was sipping an iced tea when she spotted a couple of men approaching.

"James!" she called out, waving at the one she knew. Both wore the blue uniform of the New Orleans Police Department.

"Hey, Andy girl!" James said with a broad smile. "This is my friend Shawn. He wanted to come along when I told him I was having lunch with my hot Chinese girlfriend."

"I'm Korean." Andrea pointed. "Korean-American."

"You still my girlfriend, though, right?"

"As long as Jessica doesn't find out," Andrea said with a laugh, looking pointedly at the gold ring on his left hand.

"What she don't know won't hurt her," James said with a smile.

Like James, Shawn was black, but lighter skinned and shorter, more muscular. James was tall and lean, with a carefully shaved head and a ready smile.

"Nice to meet you, Shawn," Andrea said, offering her hand.

"You too, Andrea. James told me all about you."

"Oh, super," she said, with a mock groan. In truth, she adored James. He and his wife Jessica had been her neighbors across the hall in her first apartment in New Orleans. Andrea had cultivated the friendship, in the hopes that a pal on the force would be useful for work, but he'd become a genuine friend. One who, sadly, was almost completely steadfast in his refusal to give up information to a reporter.

"What's going on, Andrea?" he asked, while waving down a passing waiter.

"Oh…I was hoping you knew something you could share on the illegals in the river."

"Girl, you know—" he took a minute out to order coffee and a chicken caesar salad from the waiter. "You know I can't talk to civilians about shit like that. Why do you keep asking me?"

"Because I keep hoping you'll change your mind?" Andrea asked, hopefully.

"Andy, if you want, there are open spots on the force. Ever think of a career chance?"

Andrea snorted. Andrea Feldman, armed and dangerous. Yeah, right.

"Besides," James added, "That's not even being handled in my precinct. I don't know anything the whole mess."

"Okay, fine. You sure…" her voice trailed off as she noticed that neither James nor quiet Shawn were paying her the slightest attention. Both of them seemed to be focused on something beyond her.

"James, man," Shawn whispered, "Is there a movie filming in town right now?"

Andrea twisted around in her wrought iron chair to see what they were looking at. It was, of course, a woman.

She sat at the next table over, alone. Her outfit was something that would have looked ridiculous on almost anyone – she was dressed like a 40s movie star, in black trousers, a white silk blouse with matching white silk opera gloves, oversized sunglasses and a filmy white scarf wrapped around her head – but on her, it looked great. Of course, Andrea had to admit, most clothes would look great on a woman like that. What was visible of her face was flawlessly beautiful. The hair peeking out underneath the scarf was a mess of brown curls that seemed to take on a gingery sheen in the bright sunlight. And her body was almost too perfect.

"How much you think she paid for those things?" she asked the men. Perhaps a little bitterness snuck into her voice. Just a little.

"Andy, what you talking about?" James asked, his eyes glued to the woman. "Those are real. I can tell."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. No one has a body like that naturally, guys."

"That girl does," Shawn said. "Damn, she's hot."

As if she'd heard them – which was impossible, she was too far away, and they were speaking quietly, she turned and smiled. Shawn blushed. James blushed too, Andrea thought, although it was hard to tell with his dark skin. Even with her glasses covering half her face, Andrea was startled at the woman's beauty. She was herself not an unattractive woman and she knew it, but she couldn't help feeling a little envy, smiling back at the 40s movie star.

Suddenly, she realized she was twisted around in her chair to look at the woman. She colored in embarrassment. _God, I'm an idiot._

"What do you know about Gambit?" she asked. Trying to cover her discomfiture, she spoke a little louder than she'd intended.

The policemen looked at each other. "What you want to know about that crazy guy for?" Shawn asked.

"What makes him crazy?" Andrea asked in return.

Shawn shrugged. "Guy's a mutant. Devil eyes. And he's a criminal."

"What? My coworker says he saved her at some club last night."

"I don't know about that," Shawn admitted. "But I do know he's a thief. You never heard of the Thieves' Guild? Man, you_ are_ new in town."

"The Thieves' Guild…you're saying that the Thieves' Guild is _real_?" Andrea was shocked. She hadn't been in town two weeks before a neighbor had warned her to make sure she kept her door locked, or the Thieves' Guild would empty her apartment when she had her back turned. It didn't take long before she'd determined that the guild was a local legend, a bogeyman of sorts. She'd even once done a search of the entire newspaper records that had been electronically archived and come up with absolutely nothing.

"Damn right it's real." James responded grimly. "It's next to impossible to pin anything on them, or even prove they exist, but you won't find a cop in New Orleans who won't tell you that the Thieves' Guild is real. Bunch of damned Cajuns."

"And New Orleans' own superhero is a member?" Andrea asked, skeptically.

"Is that what people are saying about him now?" James asked with a laugh. "Damn mutie's come up in the world. New Orleans' superhero. People need a superhero, maybe they should look to people who don't use a code name to hide behind, people risking their lives every day for their safety."

"How do you know this guy's a member of the Thieves' Guild anyway?" She watched Shawn take out his cell phone and fidget with it. He seemed to be typing a text message. James shrugged.

"Common knowledge. Everyone knows the LeBeaus run the Guild, and Remy LeBeau's the worst of the lot, especially if you're a cop and don't like getting blown up."

"Who's Remy LeBeau?" Andrea asked, confused.

"Your new buddy. Gambit. That's his real name."

"Oh. He blows stuff up?"

James shrugged again. "I don't know shit about mutants and what they can and can't do, but things do have a tendency to explode around him. That's all I can say for sure."

At the neighboring table, the mystery woman's cell phone rang. Andrea paused to eavesdrop for a moment. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the sweet, slow Southern drawl that came out of the woman's mouth wasn't it. Not a New Orleans accent at all.

"Hi, sugar. Listen, can I call you back in a bit? I need to talk to you but I'm at a café right now and it's a little public. Okay. You too, sugar. Bye."

Andrea was a little disappointed that she wasn't going to get to hear mystery woman's private life stories. _I never thought I'd be annoyed that someone used discretion with a cell phone!_, she thought, grinning.

"Andy, hon, it's always nice to see you, but we gotta go," James said, pushing his empty plate to the center of the table. Andrea sighed.

"I'd better go back to work too."

"So, you done with the bodies in the river story?" Shawn asked.

"What?"

"The story. You gonna move on to something else? I mean, no one's talking, you don't really have much to go on."

Andrea stared at him in surprise. "You think the detectives on the case are giving up?"

"They're detectives," Shawn said. "It's their job to find criminals."

"And it's my job to tell that story. Hell no, I'm not giving up."

Shawn frowned slightly. "Whatever."

"Shawn's just trying to save you some time." James put in. "Listen to him."

Andrea waved them off, refusing to acknowledge the unwanted advice. The men tallied up their bill and threw down some cash, and said their goodbyes, leaving her alone. Andrea glanced at her watch. Seven pm. News people often worked strange hours to accommodate a deadline – she wasn't supposed to be off for another hour yet. She ordered another iced tea from the passing waitress and pulled out her notebook. Once again, she found herself staring at a blank page she had no idea how to fill. _ Wasn't I just here?_, she thought wryly. She moved her chair slightly so that she could watch Mystery Woman without having to turn completely around. She was eating ice cream and reading a magazine. Her cell phone – which looked terribly complicated – was set on the table next to the ice cream dish. Every once in a while, Mystery Woman glanced over at it. After a few moments, she picked it up and, using a stylus, typed out a text message.

If she was aware that the woman at the next table was surreptitiously watching her, she gave no sign of it.

Andrea finished her tea, paid the bill, and collected her belongings. Mystery Woman had finished off her ice cream but seemed engrossed in her reading, despite the rapidly dying sunlight.

Pulling her bag over her shoulder, Andrea began heading back to the office. Large parts of New Orleans had not been designed with the automobile in mind, and though it wasn't a long distance, the route was strangely circuitous. The city didn't have the reputation as the safest place, especially packed as it often was with crazed drunken tourists – after two years, Andrea felt she finally had the right to scoff at the toursists – but she always felt safe in the quiet neighborhood around her office.

Which was why she never expected someone to grab her from behind and shove her to the ground.

"Fucking bitch!" laughed her attacker.

_Her attacker. Her attacker._ Andrea had an attacker. Andrea Feldman, who couldn't kill a spider. Someone was attacking her. And it hurt. He kicked her in the torso.

She stared up at the man. He was…she wanted to make notes of his appearance, something to tell the reporter later, unless she wrote the story herself, no, that wasn't ethical. You can't write a story about yourself. Maybe John, he did the local briefs most of the time. But there was nothing to see. A shape, a face indistinct in the streetlights.

She cried out. A whimper. Too quiet for anyone else to hear.

But he heard.

"You gonna cry, bitch? Goddamn fucking bitch, you should cry."

She struggled to get to her feet, to run away. He kicked her again. She'd have a bruise the next day. Tomorrow. When this would be the past.

She wished it was the future now. Again he kicked her, hard.

"Why can't fucking bitches like you learn to mind your own goddamn business?" He leaned close, and she could see that he was white, that he had dark eyes and a scraggly beard. His breath smelled of onions. Andrea liked onions. "You hear me? Mind your own fucking business, bitch!" He grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the cobblestone street. Tears began to trickle from her eyes, and she prayed she would remain conscious. She thought of her iced tea and how nice it had tasted. How long ago had that been? Fifteen minutes?

"You don' have a very good vocabulary, do you?" A new voice.

"What the fu-" her attacker began. Andrea's eyes were closed, but she heard the noise, the sound of something heavy and fast connecting with a human face. She opened her eyes to see her attacker to her left, licking blood off his lip. On her right stood another figure, holding a staff.

"You wanna fight me? I don't really recommend it," the new figure said, menacingly. He poked her attacker in the chest with the end of his staff and – Andrea's senses were beginning to return and in the unnatural yellow streetlight she saw this clearly – smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

Andrea's attacker gasped, turned heel, and ran. The new figure muttered something in French. It didn't sound very happy. Then he turned to her.

His eyes were glowing red. Lying on the cobblestone street, her head pounding and her side aching, her adrenaline pumping, Andrea looked up at the man with the devil's eyes and began to sob.

"S'okay, chére," he told her. "You gon' be okay."

He crouched down, took her hand, and gently pulled her to her feet.

"You gon' be okay. Gambit promise."


	2. Home

Oh, something I forgot to mention in Chapter One, the idea from this fic came from the current Gambit book, where it's clear that some people – maybe particularly kids, who'd dig that sort of thing, and other mutants – are aware of Gambit's existence and his presence in New Orleans, but it's not as though he's terribly well-known to everyone. Of course, Rogue hasn't been in New Orleans in that book, but let's pretend she has, okay? It's fun to pretend. (Besides, I expect she will be soon enough. Have you read the newest issue? Hehehe. Remy giving a lecture on the evils of thievery? What on earth was Kitty thinking?)

Disclaimer:

Story is mine, Andy is mine, everything else is Marvel's. Except the city of New Orleans, I expect it belongs to its residents.

OOOOOOO

Moving was tough. Her left side would be a mass of bruising in the morning and her head…well, it felt like someone had slammed it into a hard surface. She touched her right hand to the back of her scalp. No blood. She sighed in relief.

As they made their way from the dark alley to a well-lit main street, Andrea looked up at her rescuer. Even in her dazed state, she had to admit that Lauren was right. He _was_ hot. In the unnaturally yellow lighting, it was difficult to discern the color of his hair, but his features were nearly perfect. His eyes, glowing red, were his only flaw. He had arranged her left arm over his shoulder and carefully held his right arm around her waist.

"How you feelin'?" he asked, suddenly. It was the first thing he'd said since he'd helped her get up.

"Not good," Andrea said, trying to laugh. It came out as a sniffle.

"Gambit get you to a hospital, okay?"

"Hospital?"

"_Oui_, hospital. Where the doctors are? You have a concussion, _chére_?"

"No…I don't want to go to a hospital. I want to go home." Andrea began to panic. If she needed medical attention, that meant she was really injured. That someone had truly attacked her. She didn't want to believe it had happened. She imagined herself describing it to a policeman…no. No doctors, no policemen, no nothing. Just home and bed. Her breathing grew ragged.

"_Chére_, I think you need to see a doctor."

"No!" it was louder than she'd intended. A drunk girl – she was swaying where she stood – waiting for a cab on the opposite side of the street looked up and waved. "No," she repeated, more quietly. "I don't need a doctor."

"What if you have bleeding on the inside?"

"I don't! I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine!" As if repeating it enough would make it so.

He sighed. "Okay, I help you get home then, _oui_?"

"Uh, _oui_. Yeah. Okay." He hailed a passing cab, and helped her climb in. Once sitting, she rested her elbows on her knees, her throbbing head in her hand. Looking at her feet, she gave the cabbie her address.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Andrea."

He said something in French.

Andrea stared up at him blankly. "I took Spanish," she admitted.

"Jus' sayin' nice to meet you, Andrea. I'm Gambit."

"I figured that out," she said dryly. "It's a giveaway when you talk in the third person."

"Ooh, sarcasm. Y'gonna be jus' fine, Andrea _chére_," he said with a laugh. She gave him a wan smile and realized something.

"I never said thank you. Thank you."

"My pleasure. Can't let anyone hurt the _belles filles_ of New Orleans, can I?"

She tried to smile again, but her head hurt too much. She turned to face the window, watching the streetlights blur by.

Ten silent minutes later, Gambit gently helped Andrea out of the cab in front of her apartment. She breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing that the quiet residential street was empty. She hobbled over to the stoop, clutching her left side with her left hand. With her right hand, she fumbled for the keys in her bag. The tall man with the red eyes stood protectively over her, rather to her chagrin. She'd hoped he'd go away with the cab. She hated thinking that she needed protection. Who would want to hurt Andrea Feldman?

She had finally found the keys – under a packets of gum, some grocery receipts from a months ago, and a pair of sunglasses with a missing arm – when Gambit stiffened and pulled a small rod out of one of the pockets on his trench coat. He made a quick, curious gesture and it extended into the staff she'd seen him use before.

"What are—" she started in a high-pitched voice. She fell silent as she heard what he'd heard: footsteps in the alley running adjacent to her house. _A kid_, she told herself. _ Someone taking a shortcut._ Then she remembered her street ended a block down. There was no place to take a shortcut to.

Out of the dark alleyway, a figure appeared. Andrea collapsed on the bottom step of her narrow porch with a thump, attempting to hide in the shadow.

"Too late," the figure said. A man. "I saw you, little girl."

"What you want wit' her," Gambit asked calmly. _Good question_, Andrea thought, moving out of the corner of the stoop to watch him. _Now kick his ass!_

But neither men moved. "Not your business, mutie," the man said with disdain. He was short and muscular, with thin fair hair. He had a Southern, not New Orleans, accent. Andrea could see Gambit narrowing his eyes. He looked…sinister. The man laughed. And pulled out a gun, which he pointed at Gambit, who didn't react. Andrea whimpered.

"Don't you try that devil act with me, _Gambit_. I can't believe that idiot ran away just because you're a freak with freak eyes. I know who you are. Muties die same as humans."

"S'true I'm just a mutant," Gambit acknowledged. He still didn't seem to notice that he had a gun pointed at him. "But I think you'll find I ain't that easy to kill." He glanced over at Andrea, hugging her knees on the stoop. "Right, Andrea _chére_?"

The armed man's eyes followed Gambit's for an instant, his head turning slightly to glance at her. An instant was all he needed. Before Andrea could blink, two small glowing pink objects were hurtling through the air with a slight whistling noise.

"Shit!" the armed man yelled as they exploded. He swatted his arms frantically as a third and fourth glowing pink object hit him. His gun fell to the ground. Gambit casually leaned down to pick it up with his right hand as he sidearmed another glowing thing at the would-be attacker, who fell to his knees. He tucked the gun into a pocket, turned to the stranger and jabbed him in the chest with the end of the staff.

"Who sent you?" he asked gruffly.

"I ain't talking," the man said angrily. His hair fell in his eyes and he blew a puff of air to push it out of the way.

"The Assassins find out you workin' on their turf, you'll be glad it was just me caught you. What's your name and who you workin' for?"

"The Assassins, I'm working for them," the man said hastily. "Name's Daniel McCall."

"You ain't workin' for them, Danny, don' lie," Gambit said with an easy laugh. Andrea had started at the mention of assassins. Here? In New Orleans? Thieves were one thing, but assassins? "We ain't dead, are we? Tell me who you workin' for." He punctuated his last sentence with a shove of the staff.

"Name's Jay," he said sulkily. "I don't know more than that. He's working for someone too, though, but I don't know who. He just promised me and Dave – he's the one who roughed up your girlfriend before –fifty thousand dollars each if we could take out the girl. Little Chinese girl, seemed easy enough," he said bitterly.

Gambit paused.

"I'm not Chinese," Andrea said. "I'm Korean-American." She couldn't think of anything else to say. A hundred thousand dollars to kill her? The world had turned upside down. Her head hurt and her side hurt and now someone wanted to kill her?

"You want your gun back?" Gambit asked softly.

Daniel McCall looked at him sullenly and said nothing.

Gambit took the gun from his pocket and for the first time Andrea saw it clearly. That the small explosives were weapons of some sort was obvious, but she hadn't realized the source of their combustability. To her astonishment, as the gun lay in Gambit's hand, it began to emit a pink glow.

"Here you go, _ami_," he said, lightly tossing the sizzling gun at its owner. McCall ducked, the gun landing behind him with a loud explosion. He prostrated himself, his arms covering his head. Andrea stared at Gambit, incredulous. She wondered what it would be like to be able to blow something up with a touch. She shivered.

"Daniel McCall, I wan' you do to me a favor. Yeah?"

McCall looked up, his eyes wide. He nodded.

"You go back and find this Jay character and you tell him that he made a mistake when he thought to mess wit' Mademoiselle Andrea here." He narrowed his eyes again, this time with the intended effect. McCall leaped to his feet and ran down the street.

Gambit turned to Andrea. "You get some t'ings, _chére_, Gambit wait for you here."

Andrea stared at him. "What?" she asked, confused.

"You comin' wit' me. They know you live here, and they'd find you in a hotel. So you comin' wit' me."

"What?" she asked again. "I am not! No one's going to scare me out of my own home! I'm not going home with some stranger on his say-so! Besides, you scared them away."

"Andrea., some guy is willing to spend a hundred t'ousand dollars to kill you, he ain't givin' up that easy. Gambit'd feel real bad if he succeeded. So you comin' wit' me."

Still wondering if this was really a good idea, Andrea unclenched her fist – which still held the house key – and unlocked the door. It took her ten minutes to throw some random clothes, her toothbrush, glasses, and contact lens case into a backpack and return to where Gambit stood, guarding her door.

"Ready, _chére_?" he asked.

"I guess," she muttered. "Just don't tell my mom I went home with a guy I hardly know, though, okay?"

He laughed. She smiled weakly at her own joke.

Getting a cab was slightly harder this time, but within ten minutes they were once again sitting silently in the backseat. Gambit had given the cabbie an address she didn't recognize, but soon enough they were pulling up in front of an attractive gingerbread Victorian that appeared to have been converted into a couple of apartments.

Andrea reached for her bag, but Gambit grabbed it first. "I got it, Andrea. Come on, _chére_." Paying the cabbie, he led her up the stairs to the second floor apartment. Before he could reach for the doorknob, someone inside jerked it open.

OOOOOOO

Okay, Ch. 2 was getting ridiculously long, so I had to cut it at kind of a funny point. The good news is, Ch. 3 will be up very, very soon, as it's almost completely finished. Whew!

Oh, and before anyone gets on my case for saying that Remy's eyes are a physical flaw, put yourself in Andrea's shoes. She just thinks they're kind of freaky.

Gambitlover21, thanks for your review. Seriously! It meant a lot.


	3. Rogue

1. I realized I had the accents on my ès backwards. I mentioned I don't know French, right? I may go back and fix them in the previous chapters, but don't hold your breath.

2. Remember the bit about this chapter being up really soon? Uh. Sorry. Never get a job, a life, or friends, people.

3. IvyZoe, why do you say that? Are you reading something I'm not?

Disclaimer: Andrea is mine, the X-men are mine. Wait, no. Strike that last one. They belong to Marvel, d'oh.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A pair of green eyes regarded them coolly. "I told you to talk to her, Remy, not bring her home."

"Didn' have a lot of choice, Rogue _chère_," he said, brushing past the woman in the doorway. Andrea stood on the porch, shocked. She barely even listened as Gambit described himself heroically thwarting her attackers – twice! As he spoke, he wandered around the red living room, dropping things as he went. His coat fell on a chair, keys on a table, the staff against the wall.

The woman in the doorway was her Mystery Woman from that afternoon.

"Come on in," Mystery Woman said, her voice warming up as she shot a glance at Gambit as he disappeared into the next room. "Don't you be standing out here on the porch all night." She led Andrea inside and motioned for her to sit down at one of the high stools in the adjoining kitchen.

Up close, the woman was even more beautiful than she'd appeared earlier. Besides the clear green eyes, obscured by sunglasses that afternoon, the front locks of her hair were pure white. Andrea wondered if it was natural or an affectation. Either way, it was striking. She'd abandoned her retro glamour outfit for black yoga pants and a t-shirt. As she began to putter around the kitchen, she slipped on a pair of thin black elbow-length gloves, Andrea noticed. She wondered if she had some kind of germ phobia.

"I'm sorry," Andrea said cautiously. "I didn't catch your name." _She isn't really called…_

"Rogue." She confirmed. "And you're Andrea?"

"Yeah. Um. Thank you for having me with, uh, such short notice." _What the hell kind of name is that?_

"You ain't a Southerner, are you?" Rogue asked with a smile.

"No." Andrea shook her head. "I'm from LA. Er, the other one, in California."

"Well, they don't call it Southern hospitality for nothing. You eat supper?"

"Uh…yeah." She'd eaten at the café, right? Yes, definitely.

"You want tea? Water? Milk?"

"Tea sounds…"

"No beer?" Gambit asked, reappearing in black sweats and t-shirt. The two of them now looked a matched pair, both making soft, shapeless lounging clothes look far better than it had any right to.

"You may have beer. For Andrea, I don't think so."

"_Merci, chère_. I am touched by your magnamity."

Rogue swatted him lightly on the arm. "Tea, then? Okay, we have-" she let out a yelp as Gambit grabbed her gloved wrist as she tried to move past him.

"Remy, let me go." He just grinned. "Remy, let me go or I will _make_ you let me go."

"Aw, _chère_, your methods wouldn' mess up my nice tidy house now, would they?"

"It's not impossible." Andrea wasn't sure if Rogue was serious or not. She wondered if Rogue was a mutant too. She probably was, she decided. What was her power? Remy could blow things up by touching them, but he seemed to take her threat at least semi-seriously, so it had to be something pretty good.

"_Mais_, I guess you can go, then." Before he released her, though, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the base of her palm. It was a startlingly intimate gesture. Andrea wondered if she should look away. He let her hand go free and bent down to kiss the top of her head. Rogue smiled up at him then brushed past to put some water on to boil.

"Anything else you need, Andrea?" she asked, tucking a loose white strand of hair behind her ear. "Chamomile okay?"

"Oh, uh, Tylenol, or Advil…or something like that. That would be nice. Chamomile sounds really good." The pain in her head had subsided to a dull throb, but the ache in her left side caused her to sit hunched with pain.

"Lord, of course. Remy, do we have anything like that?"

"Medicine closet." He'd settled down on the sofa and was looking under cushions, apparently hunting for the remote control.

"Some help would be nice," she informed him.

"On my way, _chère_," he said immediately. Andrea found the exchange enormously amusing in its mundanity. _Superheroes at home._

"By the way, sugar, what did you say to Logan yesterday?"

Gambit paused in the bathroom doorway, Advil bottle in his hand.

"Say t' Logan? Nothing. Why?"

Rogue poured boiling water into a tea pot as she spoke. "Jean called. She wanted to know what you said to Logan."

Gambit shrugged and set the painkillers down by Andrea's elbow as he sat down on the next stool. Rogue, standing on the opposite side of the tiled kitchen counter, rested her gloved hands on the top of the hot tea pot. "Nothing. He called t'say Cyke was pissed at us. Which he thinks is funny, but we ought to get back anyway."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Oh, just told him about how nice it is to be home. How New York is a nice place and all, but you never stop missin' the place you're from."

"Huh. Well, apparently he took that to heart. Jean says he up and disappeared this morning. They didn't even realize he was gone til he called Jubilee to say he was in Canada and that you're not as dumb as you look."

"You're kidding!" Gambit began to laugh.

"That I am not. He told Jean that you'd made a good point and walked out the door. She didn't know what he was talking about and thought he'd be back later, but he called this evening to say he'd be back when he was ready."

"What'd Cyke say?"

Rogue winced as she poured a cup of tea into a big yellow mug. "Jean didn't tell me. I'm not sure I want to know. She did say that Alex is furious, though. Maybe we should just stay away from Westchester for awhile."

"You don' see me in a hurry to get back, do you?"

"Westchester!" Andrea exclaimed. She dropped the two Advil she'd been about to put in her mouth. "Isn't that…are you something to do with the X-Men?" The mutant vigilantes were famous and mysterious in equal amounts. Occasionally an amateur video of them battling would show up on CNN. Their leader was a bald telepathic guy, Charles Xavier, that much she knew, and they were based in Westchester, a suburb of New York City. That, and that they claimed to be good guys but most people were suspicious of their motives.

"You didn't know that?" Gambit asked, surprised.

"No," Andrea said, shaking her head. Which hurt. Everything was fuzzy. She had the feeling she ought to be asking them questions. X-Men! In New Orleans! That would be a good story, if she could find her pen and notebook. Were they still in her bag? Where was her bag? James had told her that Gambit was a thief, could he have taken it? Her phone…she should call her mom, tell her she would be late for dinner…no, mom was back in LA, wasn't she?

The room spun.

"I think I need to lie down," Andrea said faintly.

Everything went dark.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Next time: time to play detective!

XXOO

Thirteen


	4. The Port

Thank you so much to my reviewers! I didn't think I would care about reviews very much, but seriously, a few kind words just made my day. Not to mention inspired me to write faster!

At ColossusR's suggestion, I've changed my settings to allow anonymous reviews, so feel free to tell me what you think. Don't be_ too_ harsh, though, okay?

Incidentally, anyone worried that Marvel is going to break up Rogue and Remy (IvyZoe, looking at you) should read X-Men: The End, which has them married and Rogue able to control her absorption (and letting everyone call her Anna). Of course, it also has Storm as a paraplegic involved with Wolverine, so I'm not sure how canon it is, but it looks like things turn out better for them than it does for Scott and Jean. Are there even Scott/Jean shippers? That would be kind of boring, I think.

The X-Men? Not mine. Andrea? Mine. Special thank you goes out to Google and Wikipedia.

oooooo

Andrea awoke slowly, her dream – something about talking chocolate fish – fading away as she became aware of her surroundings. She kept her eyes screwed tight, hoping that she could wish herself into her own bed.

She lay like that for ten minutes, or maybe twenty, it was hard to tell, when a voice on the other side of the door finally brought her back to reality.

The room was white, bright, and airy. It had almost no furnishings, just the bed she was lying in and a bureau with a mirror affixed it. Andrea rolled over, realizing that except for her shoes, she was still dressed in her clothes from the night before. She breathed a sigh of relief. It might have been more comfortable to have slept in her underwear, but there was no way that would have made up for the embarrassment she would have felt had she woken up to see she had been undressed by strangers.

Not that she felt super great about having to be carried to bed after having fainted last night. God, she'd _fainted_! Who the hell faints? Okay, so it had been a stressful day, but Andrea was a tough chica, right?

Remembering the feeling of pressing her body against the corner of her porch while someone else fought to defend her life, she shuddered. She wasn't that tough, and she shouldn't have to be that tough. Because she shouldn't have to worry about people trying to kill her, it was that simple. Andrea Feldman wasn't a threat to anyone. Well, unless she was in muckraking mode…

"_Why can't fucking bitches like you learn to mind your own goddamn business?_" The man in the alley. She sat up straight in the bed. Her left side ached fiercely. The voice – it was female – in the next room was getting louder.

_Oh god_, she thought. _Oh god oh god ohgodgodgod_. She tried to form a real prayer. _ Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech haolam_…let's see, candle lighting, wine, bread, none of those seemed appropriate. _Please help me be strong_, she prayed. She thought English would be as good as Hebrew.

Andrea stood up carefully and walked barefoot into the living room.

"Oh yeah?" Rogue was shouting now. "Why, exactly, should I be following orders from you?" She stalked across the room, phone to her ear. Gambit sat at the kitchen counter, reading the paper and sipping a cup of coffee.

"What the hell are you even talking about? We're not students, in case you haven't noticed. You're not the headmistress of us!…Emma, we are not teachers either!…So what?…Give me a break, Emma, like Remy can really _make_ Logan do anything…The entire team can set a good example for the kids. We_ like_ setting a bad example…Yes, I must!"

"Roguey, we have neighbors," Gambit reminded her. She frowned at him.

"Emma," Rogue said into the phone in a firm, but quiet voice, "We will be back when we're ready." With a grand gesture, she pressed the "end call" button on her phone.

"Damn cell phones," she muttered. "You can't even hang up on someone properly."

"Um, good morning," Andrea said hesitantly from the doorway.

"Oh lord, Andrea!" Rogue said, coloring a little. "I got a little carried away. Did I wake you up?" She was wearing khaki pants with a long sleeved athletic shirt in two shades of pink. And white gloves. She looked like a germophobic model on her day off.

"No, I was already awake," Andrea assured her, wondering exactly what fashion statement Rogue was trying to make with the gloves. She wasn't sure it was working, exactly.

"Oh good. Coffee?" Andrea nodded and sat down on the bar stool next to Gambit. "I know you think I'm a horrible bitch now, but you should meet Emma. On second thought, be grateful you don't know her. There is something about her that just brings out the worst in me. Woman thinks I'm an idiot because I have a Southern accent, I swear."

"She don' think you're an idiot," Gambit spoke into his coffee.

"Yes, she does." Rogue placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of Andrea.

"No, she don'. She jus' jealous no amount of work can make her look as good as you do naturally."

Rogue rolled her eyes, but looked rather pleased.

"How you feelin', Andrea?" Gambit asked her. "You had us a little scared las' night."

"Much better." Andrea said. "I'm sorry about that. Thanks for helping me to bed." She paused. "I've never fainted before. I don't know what to say."

"I've had some practice at it," Gambit said. "Y'did jus' fine." Andrea thought he was joking, but she wasn't sure. He was wearing jeans and a dark brown t-shirt. His hair, she could see now, was a dark auburn, and damp from a shower. She wondered idly what color his eyes would be if they weren't red.

"Andrea," Rogue began cautiously, "I'm sorry we have to talk about it, but do you have any idea why you were attacked?"

Andrea took a sip of her coffee and nodded. "I think I do know. I'm a journalist, you know."

"A journalist?" Gambit's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. For the Times-Picayune. And I've been working on this story that's just been making me crazy. Um. Good coffee. In the last two months, the three Hispanic males have washed up just south of the city. No one has reported anyone matching their descriptions in the right time frames missing, so we're operating under the assumption that they're illegals. All three had bruises and lacerations, but they weren't drowned and they weren't beaten to-" her voice broke. "They weren't beaten death," she continued. "Someone was trying to dispose of their bodies. I've talked to police, I've talked to the Port, no one's talking. That guy…before you showed up last night, he told me to mind my own business. I think this is what he was talking about."

Rogue looked thoughtfully at her coffee. "You sure? No ex-boyfriends out there giving you trouble?"

"No, _chère_," Gambit interrupted before Andrea could respond. "They were being paid. Fifty K each. Dat ain't ex-boyfriend behavior."

"I haven't dated anyone since I moved to New Orleans anyway," Andrea said.

"So, who knows you're working on the story?" Rogue asked.

Andrea shrugged helplessly. "Practically everyone, it seems. I must have talked to half the people in the Port building. It's not really a secret. They were probably talking about me in the break rooms, making fun of the 'Chinese girl' who couldn't break the story," she finished bitterly.

"You t'ink they really know somethin'?"

"I think someone knows something. And someone else knows that someone who knows something. These men didn't die in the river, someone dumped them there. And if I can't figure out who did it, at least I'll find out why no one else seems interested in leaning that, and why someone thinks it's worth a hundred thousand dollars to kill me to keep that from happening." Suddenly, she was furious. She was a journalist. She had only one goal – to report what was happening in the city to its citizens. And someone wanted to stop her from doing that? How _dare_ they?

"Well, let's go see them, see if we can't convince them to open up a little more," Rogue said.

"Shouldn't we call the police or something?" Andrea wondered. "This seems awfully unauthorized." Gambit cleared his throat.

"Thing is, Andrea, police don' like me very much. If they knew I was involved in this, they'd find some way t'blame poor Remy."

"Right, of course 'poor Remy'," Rogue repeated with a grin. "I'm sure you've done absolutely nothing to deserve that, right?"

"I am wounded, _chère_! Wounded!" She rolled her eyes again and looked over at Andrea.

"Don't worry, Andrea. We're professionals. You take a shower now, then you have some breakfast, then we'll go down to the Port. The blue towels are for you."

_Professional whats?_ Andrea wondered as she headed to the bathroom.

oooooo

A shower later and Andrea felt like a new woman. Her left side was a mass of aching bruises and would be for a few days, but her head barely hurt anymore. Scalding water and lots and lots of soap and she felt…better. She peered at her reflection in the steamy mirror. Same tilted brown eyes in the same pale oval face, same long black hair. She wondered if she'd ever be the same as she'd been that time the day before. She wondered if she even wanted to be that Andrea anymore.

She dressed quickly in jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. She didn't need to be at work for another few hours. Maybe she'd make it in after all.

Breakfast turned out to be scrambled eggs, toast, grits, and bacon.

"Oh," Andrea said hesitantly, not wanting to be rude. They'd been so generous. "No bacon, thank you."

"You a vegetarian, Andrea?" Rogue asked. She didn't appear offended.

"No, I'm Jewish." She paused, then quickly added: "I'm adopted."

"You don't need t'explain y'self," Gambit told her. "Roguey's adopted too, an' so'm I. You should see Rogue wit' her brother if you want to see an unlikely-looking family."

"You don't think Kurt and I have a family resemblance?" Rogue asked, smiling."Not unless you got a tail you been hiding somewhere."

_A tail?_, Andrea wondered. She sipped her coffee. Gambit set down the paper, and Andrea picked it up. The ink wasn't quite dark enough, she saw, and made a mental note to mention it to her boss. They should talk to the printer about that.

On the third page, a story caught her eye. _Alexander Davaine, 54, Dead by Apparent Suicide._

"Whoa," she said. They looked at her, and she read them the headline.

"Who's Alexander Davaine?" Rogue asked.

"Oh, this shipping guy. I'd never heard of him til I started working on this story, but I've spent a lot of time at the docks lately, and he has a real big presence there. Just kind of surprising to hear he's dead."

"Speaking of the docks," Rogue said, "Let's go, shall we?"

oooooo

The modern glass structure on the banks of the Mississippi that housed the Port Authority was bustling with activity. Andrea sighed with relief as they stepped into the air conditioned building. The mild weather of the previous day had given way to a heavy, wet heat. Gambit was, incredibly, wearing his leather duster. He didn't even seem to notice the weather. Rogue still wore her gloves, so Andrea assumed it wasn't bothering her either. Yet more proof that Southerners were crazy.

"What are we doing again?" Andrea asked them in a whisper.

"We just gon' talk t'dem," Gambit explained in a normal voice.

"I already did talk to them," Andrea pointed out, still whispering. "Remember?"

In response Gambit led them up to the receptionist at the front desk, who was on the phone, reading from the paper.

"The initial police reports state that the cause of death was apparently a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the right temple," she read into the phone. "I thought Mr. Davaine was left-handed, wasn't he, Jenny? Oh, never mind then. Why did I think that? Anyway, of course not! I don't believe it for a second. Do you? Neither does Ann, and you know she went to school with Catherine Sainte-Marie, you know, that's Mr. Davaine's niece and—" she cut herself short as she looked up from the paper to see Gambit leaning up against her desk.

He smiled at her.

"Jenny, I'll call you back." She hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

"_Bonjour_," he said brightly. "You have heard de sad news about Monsieur Davaine, then?"

"Um, oh, yes," the receptionist said, confused. She was blond and slightly plump, with a New Orleans accent.

"Y'don' t'ink his deat' was a suicide?" Gambit's accent was suddenly almost absurdly exaggerated. He sounded like Pepe LePew, Andrea thought from her position off to the side, and she snickered slightly at the resulting visual image. Rogue shushed her.

"Oh, no, see, Mister Davaine, he was in here all the time. He had a lot of business with us, of course, and he was good friends with Mr. Edwards, that's the Port CEO, you know. Such a sweet man, you know, always had a kind word for everyone. He never forgot my name and gave us the nicest presents at Christmas!"

"But who knows what demons he faced in here?" He tapped his head. "And in here?" He placed a hand on his heart.

"Oh, no," the receptionist, exclaimed. "He had so much to live for! His daughter just had a baby – the cutest little boy you ever saw – and his son is about to graduate from college. I can't believe he killed himself, I just can't."

Gambit raised an eyebrow. "What d'you t'ink happen den?" he asked in a low voice, leaning towards her conspiratorily.

"I think…" she quickly looked to either side to see if anyone was listening. "I think he was _murdered_."

"No!" Gambit exclaimed, horrified. "By who?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

"You t'ink Mr. Edwards might know?"

"He knew Mr. Davaine better than me," the receptionist said, thoughtfully.

"You t'ink I can see him,_ chère_?"

"Of course!" the receptionist said happily, clearly excited to be helping him out. "His office is on the third floor, southwest corner. He has a meeting in an hour, though."

"_Merci beaucoup, chère_," Gambit said. She beamed at him.

"What the hell was that?" Andrea asked Rogue quietly as the three of them headed for the elevator. Gambit overheard her and smiled, but said nothing.

"Never trust a Cajun," was Rogue's response.

"Roguey, I don't know what you talkin' about," Gambit protested, taking her gloved hand. She just smiled at him as they stepped into the elevator.

"I'm serious…how did you do that? I've been in here five times and never got anything but a 'I'm sorry, I really can't help you' from that woman, and you got us an invite to the Port CEO? She didn't even ask who you were! I even showed her my press pass!"

"It's part of his mutation," Rogue told her. "He's a charmer."

"Rogue!" Gambit exclaimed, annoyed. "Why don' you just take out a full page ad in de New York Times?" He turned to Andrea and explained: "It doesn' work if y'know about it."

"Oh." What else could she say? He could literally _charm_ people? She hadn't been aware that mutants could possess more than one power. That was one hell of a weapon. She wondered what she would do with that sort of ability. And once again, she wondered what Rogue's mutation was.

They stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and walked towards the southwest corner. They received some curious glances, but no one stopped them from approaching the Port CEO's office.

Rogue knocked on the door, then led them in without waiting for a response.

Stephen Edwards, as the plate on the door named him, was a slender white man in his late thirties or early forties. His brown hair was thinning, and his dark eyes were rimmed with red.

"Who are you," he asked, rising at the sudden unannounced intrusion.

"Andrea Feldman, Times-Picayune," Andrea introduced herself, stepping forward to shake his hand. "These are, uh, my colleagues. I was hoping I could get a statement from you regarding the discovery of three bodies found in the Mississippi River over the last two months. It's believed that they were illegal immigrants. Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

He stared at her as though she was speaking Greek. He didn't take her hand, and after a moment, she dropped it to her waist, feeling foolish.

"Sorry about to hear about your friend," Rogue said quietly, ending the awkward silence. He grunted.

"You don't think he committed suicide," she observed, pushing a lock of white hair behind her ear.

"You're a reporter?" he asked, warily.

"No," Rogue said with a shake of her head that loosened the white strand again.

"I thought she said…"

"She's a reporter. I'm not. Am I wrong?"

Edwards paused. This was a very strange conversation. "No. He didn't kill himself." His eyes seemed to glisten with new tears.

"I'm Rogue," she introduced herself, reaching out to take his take. This time, he returned the gesture, just as Andrea noticed that she'd removed her gloves.

Rogue's hands didn't look like she'd expected. She was a startlingly beautiful woman, and glamorous. But her nails were bare of polish and of uneven lengths.

As his Edwards' touched hers, his eyes widened. He gasped and shuddered. His hand grasped onto hers tightly. After a couple seconds, she shook her hand free.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a quavering voice.

"I told you. I'm Rogue." She turned away from him to confer with Andrea and Gambit. "He doesn't know anything about your dead bodies, Andrea, other than that it's bad PR and he doesn't want anyone talking about it. But he's sure of one thing: Davaine did not commit suicide."

oooooo

Endrnotes:

1. The Hebrew means "Blessed are you lord, our god, king of the universe" and it's how all Jewish prayers begin. The wine, bread, and candle lighting thing refers to three of the most commonly used prayers. They're the only three I can recite off the top of my head, anyway!

2. I can't remember if Emma was Co-Headmistress when Jean was still alive or not. I decided she was, here. Also, I've never noticed that she and Rogue are really antagonistic towards each other, oh well.

3. I've seen lots of fics that have Remy and Rogue as teachers, but seriously, would you want them teaching your kids? Neither of them is even the slightest bit qualified to be a teacher. I've seen them work with kids in the comics, though, which makes sense to me.

4. This was a nightmare to spellcheck!

Next time: more detectivity!

XXOO,

Thirteen


End file.
